“Tell me his name,” he said, “and I promise that he shall never trouble you. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. I’ll buzz him for you. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper.
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